


Stray Cats Have Souls

by nunyabizniz



Series: HBO SPN [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Brotherly Affection, Mentions of Animal Injury and Death, Mercy Killing, Not Beta Read, Prayer, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27971684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nunyabizniz/pseuds/nunyabizniz
Summary: The first thing Dean ever killed wasn’t a whitetail buck like his Dad liked to so proudly boast. It was a mangy stray on the side of the road.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: HBO SPN [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041972
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Stray Cats Have Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if this is really in character but then again the characters exist on out heads. Either way Dean has eldest daughter syndrome and Sam has religious guilt disease and they are both under thirteen.

The first thing Dean ever killed wasn’t a whitetail buck like his Dad liked to so proudly boast. It was a mangy stray on the side of the road. Arkansas highways are lousy with stray cats. People just drive out to the woods and dump em when the mice are gone, or their cost is too high, or whatever other reason people have for abandoning the creatures they agreed to care for. Some are wild things, matted and scarred from nose to tail. Others look whole, a bit dusty, a bit thin, but good enough to scoop up at a shelter.

Dad says not to touch em, says they might have fleas or ticks or rabies, best to keep your distance. Dean obeys of course but he also doesn’t stop Sammy when he tosses scraps of his ham sandwich to the tabby in the parking lot with a stubby tail.

When they’re walking around town the strays on the side of the street walk up to Sammy and not him. They must know, must sense the goodness in him that compels him to cry over every ugly overlooked thing. Flooded anthills, unfinished potluck dishes, lonesome old women, and abandoned buildings, anything and everything that touches Sammy’s heart makes him cry.

Most times they have nothing to give so Sam just sighs and scratches behind their ears if they’ll let him. Sometimes he cries over the ones they can’t feed.

Today Dean is cursing himself because Sam’s tears are his fault.

They cut through the woods after school to escape the relentless beating sun. When they cleared the other side Sammy stopped him gripping his elbow tight, his other little hand pointing to a shape in the distance warped by heat waves. 

“Dean, what is that?”

It was roadkill, had to be, it was dark, lumpy, and lying in the street. Only it was moving, feeble aborted attempts to drag itself to safety.

When they walked closer they saw its hind legs were shattered, pulverized, a red streak smeared across hot asphalt. It was a mutt cat, black, brown and gray smattered fur with a bite out of its ear. The sounds it let out were like death. Like Daddy when he drank a lot and moaned Mom’s name into the motel blankets, like the kids taken by CPS when Dad couldn’t save their parents.

Sam’s grip on his arm was a vice and it only just occurred to him that his brother shouldn’t see what he was gonna have to do next.

“Sammy, don't look.” He instructed, but he might as well have told the cat to get up and dance. Sam let go of him and kneeled over the cat, eyes red and watery, hands hovering around the body like they were opposed magnets and he couldn’t force himself to touch it.

“We have to help it Dean.” He insisted.

“M’gonna.” He knelt down next to his brother, slinging his backpack over his shoulder to dig for the knife he kept hidden beneath his folders.

“No.” Sam stopped him with a hand on his elbow, and Dean hoped his brother knew they couldn’t save it. “Not here.”

Their eyes met and his brother’s flicked to the shade of the woods.

“Alright.” He agreed.

Moving the cat felt like the cruelest thing Dean had ever done. It had only been mewling before but when they scooped it’s mangled body up it yowled, writhing weakly and clawing at their arms. They laid it down gentle as they could in the cool prickly grass. Sam stayed knelt over it, scratching behind its ears and crying softly while Dean flicked the knife open. The swish and pop was usually so soothing, today they both flinched.

He took a deep breath, tensed his knife hand so it wouldn’ shake. He looked at the scars on the cat's face and wondered what it had survived up to this point, only to die like this. The blade sunk into the back of it’s neck easy, like carving up a rotisserie chicken. Blood spurted out of the hole it left, coating Dean’s hand and staining the knee of Sam’s jeans.

The body was silent now, mouth open, tongue out, legs a bloody memory. Sam stood beside him and looked down at it.

“It’s not at peace.” Sam commented, he choked on his words trying to hold back any real heavy sobs.

“Doesn’t look it.” Dean agreed flatly.

“We gotta lay it to rest, or it’s spirit’ll stay here.” Sam wasn’t asking so Dean didn’t bother arguing his beliefs about animals and afterlives.

“We could bury it.” He offered.

“Mm.” His little brother nodded then dropped to his knees with a heavy thunk and started tearing at the grass. Dean crouched down beside him when enough grass was cleared for the little body. He dug with both hands pulling dirt towards himself like the arm of a backhoe. The grave they dug was shallow but the body fit just fine. There was a dark lump of misplaced dirt over it, and scattered clumps of grass strewn about.

They stood shoulder to shoulder over the grave, both stinking of sweat and dirt and blood. Sammy was crying, thick, snotty, puffy eyed, crying. Dean couldn’t look at him or he’d cry too, his throat felt too tight to say a word so he took his brother’s grubby hand into his own instead.

“Oh God,” Sammy sputtered, eyes lifted skyward, “by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, bless this grave, and send your holy angel to watch over it.” Dean kept his eyes to the ground, Sammy’s prayers always felt like a private moment between him and some close friend Dean had never met. “As we bury here the body of Milky, deliver his soul from every bond of sin, that he may rejoice in you with your saints for ever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

He kept his face turned upwards for several seconds, just looking up at big empty blue. A breeze came in from the east rustling the leaves and interrupting the thick heavy silence. Sam squeezed his hand when it was time to get moving but he didn’t let go. Neither of them looked back at the unmarked grave behind them.

The march back to the motel was faster than the trek through woods, but the repetition of step after step against hot black asphalt felt a dozen times longer.

Sam wasn’t crying anymore just watching his feet in silence. Dean itched to wash his hands, the dirt under his nails felt revolting and the blood had turned sticky.

“You named it?” He asked, looking sideways at the top of Sam’s shaggy brown head.

“Not a proper burial if the thing don’t have a name.” Sam muttered.

“And you thought of Milky?” Dean let a little smile creep up on him. Sammy shrugged.

“I saw it the other day.” He looked forward, squinting at the motel standing hazy in the heat. “It was licking up spilled milk by the dumpster.”

Figures Sammy would recognize one stray cat out of all the others.

“And the prayer?” Dean asked, eyes still trained on his brother. “Wasn’t one I’ve ever heard.”

“Pastor John taught it to me. Showed me a whole book of em while you n Daddy were out shooting.”

“Ah.” Dean nodded. He got the feeling that a lot of Sam’s religious fixations could be traced back to that summer they’d spent with Pastor John while Dad was healing up.

They made it back to the motel before Dad did. Which Dean thanked his lucky stars for cause he was not looking forward to explaining a red eyed Sam and blood on his hands, especially while Dad was on a job.

“Wash up.” Was all he needed to say when they reached the room door. 

They washed their hands in silence, hand colliding in the water stained sink. Then Sammy changed into a pair of Dean’s old cargo shorts and parked himself in front of the TV pouring over the homework he’d been assigned for the night. 

Dinner was cooked and they were watching Scooby Doo reruns by the time Dad made it home. He smiled at them both, the tight tired kind that meant the job wasn’t done. Then he ruffled Sam’s hair and asked what they’d done today.

Sam regaled them with tales of Mrs. Spencer’s fourth grade class, what he’d had for lunch, who he played with at recess. He didn’t mention knives, or roadside burials, or prayers said in the name of strays, and Dad remained peacefully ignorant and exhausted for the night.

But that night while Dean was brushing his teeth and Dad was passed out on the couch he heard Sammy praying. He was real quiet, careful not to wake up Dad, but Dean heard him clear as a bell praying for Milky again, and asking to be forgiven.

Dean couldn’t fathom what Sam thought he needed forgiveness for, he had no fault in this. It was Dean who’d decided to take the shortcut that brought them south of the motel. If they’d followed the roads they never would’ve seen Milky. And it was Dean who had dealt the blow, who would’ve been fine to leave the stray nameless on the road.

He didn’t pray like Sam did, but he hoped with all that was inside him that Sam would forget this one day, that he wouldn’t ask for forgiveness for all the love he put out there.


End file.
